


Obvious Signs, at Times Unnecessary

by SarcasmFish (Alcyonidae)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Humor, silly nerds that don't realize they love each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 06:43:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8834392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcyonidae/pseuds/SarcasmFish
Summary: The Inquisitors Inner Circle has known for far too long that the Commander and Inquisitor belong together.  Why is it taking so long for the two to figure it out themselves?  Several instances of them second guessing each other (with Dorian and Varric rolling their eyes in the background) occur before a random nightly walk find the two together.  Sometimes obvious signs aren't needed, just time and some understanding.





	

Dorian sat beside the Inquisitor, shoving her over a bit as she perched by the campfire.  “It’s frigid out here, love.  Why do you take us to such inhospitable places?  Could we take a mission to a hot bath next time perhaps?”

She chuckled and dug her spoon into the steaming bowl clasped in her hand.  “I’ll do my best.  Commander Cullen asked us to look into some disturbances that might be the result of Red Templars moving into the area.”

“Your Dear Commander Cullen…”  Dorian drawled, rolling his eyes and shoving the spoon into his own bowl.

A snicker precluded Varrics presence beside her.  “Her dear Commander Cullen indeed.”  There was a rather cat-like grin spreading across his face.

The Inquisitor paused, spoon held halfway between her lips and the bowl and glanced over her two companions.  “What are you two on about?”

Dorian dropped his spoon back into his bowl with a clattering noise and a little splash of soup.  An indigent scoff left him.  “Inquisitor, forgive me but the two of you are the most blind creatures I've ever beheld.”

She blinked at him, surprised by his sudden outburst.  “What?”

 “You and that tall, handsome dolt you named Commander of your armies.”

 “Dorian...”

“The two of you moon over each other like love starved adolescents and refuse to acknowledge it!”

“He's right, Fennec.”  The dwarf mumbled beside her, bringing a mouthful of steaming broth up to his lips.

“Varric!”

“You’re missing all of the obvious signs!”  Dorian picked up his spoon and was now gesturing with it, poking at the air to punctuate each point.  “As we were leaving yesterday he held the door open for you.”

She rolled her eyes and sighed.  “Dorian, he holds the door open for everyone.”

“Hardly!  He let it nearly close in my face he was so fixated on you!  At the mission planning he barely removed his eyes from you.  It was like you were leaving him for years instead of weeks!”

“You’re imaging things.  What did Cassandra put in your soup?”

“The two of you play chess nearly every day we’re in Skyhold –“

“We’re friends!” she interjected, tone quickly rising to a defensive one.

Varric leaned over to reenter the discussion as tensions rose.  “Look Fennec, I’ve seen my share of romances before-“

“In books, Varric!  My life is not a book.”  She scowled at her two companions, holding their gaze long enough to convey that the discussion was coming to an end.  “I’m a mage.  He has no interest in a mage.”

\-----

The War Room was a rather large and ostentatious room, perfect for holding meetings with foreign dignitaries, but not exactly the most practical place to get work done.  Cullen stood in the antechamber that also served as their Ambassadors office.  He leafed through the papers she had shoved into his hands and signed the ones she stabbed a finger at.

The woman eventually waltzed away to the window and gazed out.

“Cullen, do you prefer a woman to wear her hair up or in a more natural style?”

He shuffled some of the papers back into order and mumbled his reply with little regard to the topic.  “Your hair looks beautiful no matter how you wear it, Josie.”

The Ambassador stared at him, an exasperated expression missed by his engrossment in the paperwork.

She took a deep breath and steered the conversation a different direction.  “We’ll be venturing into Orlais in under a month.  Don’t you think it would be a benefit for you to brush up on etiquette and perhaps even a basic dance?”

This pulled him from his self-imposed trace.  He lifted his gaze, eyes narrowed in suspicion.  “I’ll be commanding the men from the outside, why would I need to brush up on anything besides strategy?”

“The Inquisitor will be going into the ball and it’s been many years since she’s played The Game.”  Josephine continued her languid stroll around the room, the movement keeping his eyes trained upon her.  “She could find herself in danger.  I thought you might want to be close by.”

Only a small twitch of his lip belied any sort of affect her words might have made.  “What are you playing at, Josie?”

“We need every advantage we can get, Cullen!”

His expression turned to one of part annoyance and the other part joy, as if he had conned her into revealing her devilish plans.  He brandished the papers in his fist like a shield.  “No, Josephine.  You are not setting me up with some Orlesian girl to further your politics!”

The Ambassador sighed as Cullen returned to signing orders and requisitions.  He made a neat stack on her desk and returned the quill he had borrowed to its designated well.  As he turned to bid the woman a good afternoon he found her cradling a bolt of cloth in her arms.

“I’m picking out fabric for the trip to Orlais.  What do you think of this color, Cullen?”

He watched her a moment, trying to divine her intent before it blinded him.  He glanced down at the shimmering cloth in her hands and then back up.  “It’s a beautiful color.  Good choice.”

“Yes, it rather reminds me of our dear Inquisitors eyes, does it not?”

“Indeed.”  Cullen mumbled his answer on the way out, shying around her like a rich man among thieves.

\------

The war council meeting had adjourned late again, as it seemed to do so often in hectic days.  The Inquisitor found herself watching her advisors gather their papers and maps.  Leliana and Josephine were still locked in a debate over the best way to handle some social scandal in the Free Marches.  Cullen had excused himself from the decision, citing their elevated knowledge over the matter as better suited to solving the crisis.

She planted her hand, the one with the mark, down onto the wooden table and pressed down, grounding herself.  But for what?  With a glance across the table at her Commander the words burst from her before she could examine them.

“Commander Cullen – have you eaten yet today?”

Cullen pulled his head up from his armful of missives, eyes wide as if he had not expected her to still be in the room.  Or perhaps he had not expected for her to speak to him in such a free manner.

“I… no.  No, I haven’t… haven’t eaten that is.”  When she waited, a patient, interested look in her features he seemed to settle and continue.  “Training ran long this morning.  This new batch of recruits has to be the greenest I’ve seen in years.  If one more complains of the cold I swear I’ll send him as far out into the Western Approach as I can.”

She laughed.  It was rare to find the Commander so free and so glib with his words.  He stared at her a moment, as if he might try and take back his words, but chose instead to smile at her laughter.

“Then we should try and remedy that.  I can’t do much about the soldiers, but as far as your hunger, I could have someone bring something up to you?”  She slipped her hand from the table and wound her fingers together before her.  Why was she so nervous?

As if summoned by their words one of his soldiers appeared at her shoulder, Cullen’s expression changed to one of business.  He glanced from the soldier back to her with a gentle nod.  “Yes, that would kind of you, Inquisitor.  Please have it sent to the barracks.  I think dining with the soldiers may bring them some inspiration… or perhaps fear.”

The Inquisitor blinked, shifting from foot to foot for a moment before stuttering out a reply.  “Oh.  Yes.  To the barracks.  Of course.  I’ll… I’ll let them know… where to send it.  Excuse me.”  She forced a smile and turned to escape the room that was seeming to grow smaller and smaller the longer she stood there.

\-----

The tavern was its usual crowded mess, it seemed.  Cullen packed in shoulder to shoulder at a table with the people casually known as the Inquisitors inner circle.  He glanced from face to face over the rim of his untouched mug.  The woman herself was missing. 

His unvoiced thought must have summoned her.  Varric disappeared at his side and the Inquisitor took over the now vacant spot.  The tavern warmed by several degrees.  He took a quick drink of the ale as Dorian flashed a charming smile across the table at her.  “Wine or ale, dear Inquisitor?”

She returned the smile.  “It’s a rather cold day out, even for Skyhold.  I think I’ll just have some hot tea instead.”

Cullen’s mouth moved before the thoughts had even lined up for inspection in his mind.  “Would you like to borrow my coat, Inquisitor?”  His eyes widened as he realized what he had spoken and the stammering back slide began.  “Ah… that is if you’d like.. or rather.. I could run and fetch you something from your quarters?”  He winced.  Oh Maker, what was he doing?  Strike him dead now before more of his foot fit into his mouth.  From the corner of his eyes he could see Dorian nearly dancing in mirth at his bumbling.

She turned that smile onto him this time, one that warmed him even further than the blushing was and somehow forced the ribbing Sera had started from his mind.  “No, need Commander.  I wouldn’t inconvenience you so.”

“It wouldn’t…”  Was that a bit of red on her own cheeks?  Had he embarrassed her in front of her friends?  He tore his gaze away and stood, best to run now before he got himself in deeper.  “I’ll um.. I’ll fetch tea, then.”  He pulled the boot away that threatened to catch on the table leg and escaped to the front bar without even remembering to ask what tea she had wanted.

\------

The lights were on again.  They most always were.  When the Inquisitor had trouble sleeping she tended to roam.  That roaming always seemed to take her by that tower.  The tower where the lights were rarely dark.

A screeching wind bit through her, causing a shiver that shook her like a mabari with a toy.  The cold had settled inside her and she could not be sure if it would ever leave.  It seemed like even in the warmest circumstances she was chilled.

She took a deep breath, adopted her stance that usually helped her fake confidence when she was not actually feeling it, and made her way toward the little tower with lights that always burned.

Outside of the door she paused, listening for any meeting or activity she might interrupt.  When no sounds came to rescue her she lifted her hand to knock.  An immediate order to enter left her no time to flee.  That voice was not one hesitated at.

Inside, the tiny tower room was remarkably warm despite the permanent chill settled around the mountainous fortress.  Several candles burned themselves down to stubs and created a glow around the man seated at the desk in the center of the room. 

His head drifted from the papers he was hunched over, eyes widening.  He stood, awkward, clumsy, suddenly too big for himself, despite the years of training to master his movements.  A few papers that had been precariously clinging to the edge of the desk floated down to the floor.  A quill pen, jostled by the bump of his hip on the desk, tipped out of its well and splattered ink onto a paper nearby.  He did not notice; his eyes were trained solely on her.

“Oh, I...”

“Cullen - I hope I’m not bothering you.”

He smiled at her, a tentative, but warming gesture that calmed the stutter in her heart.  Coming here had been the right idea.  “Bothering?  Why...  No.. No, of course not.  Please, come in… that is, uh, if you’d like to.”  He lifted a hand to rub at his opposite shoulder, something of a grimace crossing his features and then whisking away.

She walked further into the room, feeling the ice that had gathered under her skin begin to melt just a bit.  It was a strange dichotomy, how being in this small room made her courage flee, yet made her feel safer at the same time.  It was a puzzle that confused her.  She found herself unraveling it each moment she spent with him.

Cullen came around his desk to meet her, nearly knocking the chair he had been sitting in into a pile of books.  Most of his armor had been set aside, most likely after a good polishing, but the fur surcoat remained perched upon his shoulders.

She found herself watching him, the way that he moved, the way that he looked at her like a boy waiting for the Chantry nun to reprimand him.  He made to lean back against the desk, but then straightened, as if deciding against the action.  His head tilted just so, eyes soft and questioning.  Was he waiting for her to speak?  She squirmed under his unspoken inquiry.  When her steps had drifted this direction she had not quite planned this far in advance.

He cleared his throat before speaking, bridging the silence for her.  “Was there something you needed, Inquisitor?”

The title hurt.  It prickled and shamed her, reminded her that she was a figure, a leader, an authority, not a girl with a name.  “Cullen, it’s well into the night.”  She rocked onto the back of her heels, the statement coy despite the little flutter of disappointment in her mind that she fought not to show.

He shifted his weight, flicking a hand back against some of the stray locks of hair that had come loose at his temple.  “Talia, then.”  That smile returned with a bit of something else in his eyes.  Whatever it was soothed a bit of the hurt.  She refused to let herself believe he said her name any differently than he said others’.  “Was there something you needed?”

It was her turn to look away, fingers threading together to give them a place to be.  When she had sought out his office she had not brought a reason for doing so.  How did she explain her presence?  Did she even have a reason?  And would he send her away with a reprimand for wasting his time?

In her silence he stepped forward, closer to her now.  He was only a hand span or so taller than her, but the muscle to wield a sword and shield and the great mass of fur on his shoulders made him appear much larger.  It should have made her feel small and threatened.  In the past it had sent her fleeing, but now she found herself drawn closer.  Instead of vulnerable she felt shielded, like seeking refuge under a tree during a storm.

“Is everything alright?”  His tone was softer now, a mere breath, gentle with hints that if she told him it was none of his business he would accept without further prying.

She found she could not look up at him, could not see the concern in his eyes or it would break the little amount of strength she was holding onto.  Instead she focused on the books stacked beside the shelf to her left, trying her best to put on that courtly air of disinterest and nonchalance her tutors had instilled in her before her exile to the Circle.

“I was... just having trouble sleeping.”  She surprised herself with the honesty of her answer.  Her reply was half a mumble, but she chanced a glance up at him through her lashes, waiting for some placation or judgement.  His expression had changed to one of concern and a flash of something like recognition swept over him.

“Stay then.”  His quiet tone implored her, warmed her, and brushed away the foolish feeling of a child running from a bad dream.  She parted her lips to reply but found no words under the honest compassion he was leveling her with.  She wrenched her gaze away, redirecting it back to the stack of inconsequential books in the corner.

A childhood of playing The Great Game had gifted her with tremendous skills in mastering her emotions or at least mastering the appearance of her emotions.  Her teachers, the best that money and reputation could lure, had transformed her into a tiny girl with ribbons and dresses and the ability to smile and lie without a trace of deceit.  Before her unfortunate decent into magic she had held her own at some of the most dangerous balls and dances as nothing but a child.  But here she was flustered and spilling sincerity to someone every ingrained instinct told her to fear.

The gentle brush of rough fingers along the line of her jaw brought her attention back.  Just a feathering of a touch, not enough to force her to look at him, but enough to draw her out of that shell she was pulling herself into.  He yanked his hand back, leaving it hovering in uncertain limbo.  His posture was stiff as if he waited for her to berate him, to tell him he had gone too far in touching her without permission.

Instead she stared up at him, trying to read his face, trying to figure out what she wanted and just how much she could have.  She trapped her bottom lip between her teeth before it could give away her lack of fortitude.  She dug her nails into her palm and was tempted to step away from him, back to where she could get a restraint on her roiling emotions.  But that would mean leaving the safety of this small warm room, with the candles flickering and the oil lamp draining lower, the safety this man exuded from every word and manner, despite what her stomach told her otherwise.  It would mean leaving a presence that she was just realizing brought her so much comfort.

His thumb brushed over the edge of her jaw again, a slow and reverent touch that left her ample time to push him away if she so desired.  His gaze focused to where his fingers drifted, as if stunned at their bold action.

This did not feel like it had earlier.  Earlier was a touch to get her attention.  This was a touch to sooth her, to bring her back to a place where she was not alone, where her thoughts did not spiral and cocoon her in darkness.

He offered her a genuine smile as he broke the silence, tone low and gravelly as if it had not been used in some time.  “I have some tea.  It’s gone cold, but I’m guessing a mage could solve that easily enough.”

Here was a former Templar, not only inviting a mage in, but encouraging her to use her magic in his home.  Magic that had once so long ago burned and disfigured him.  “We could… could talk for a while.  Or, if you’d rather not talk, I believe I owe you a rematch.”  He was speaking in that voice she wanted so much to believe was used only for her.  The one that was soft and shy, like he was coaxing a little lost bird down from the rafters in the tavern.

She nodded, letting a small tentative smile mold her lips.  “Thank you.”


End file.
